Observation
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: Martin learns a thing or two.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Without A Trace_, nor do I own any of the characters involved with the show. I make no money from this.

**Author's note**: The character of 'Cass' _is_ my own creation, please do not use her without my permission. A special thank-you to kate98 for putting toothpicks in her eyes to beta this for me… sorry I keep you up at night, kate.

**Observation**

He watches the girl in Jack's office, even though he's not sure entirely why. Jack's entitled to visitors, and some people open up better in an office than an interrogation room. But there's something odd about the situation, about the way Jack's almost deferential in his treatment of her, handing her one file after another and nodding as she talks. Occasionally Jack asks a question and she almost always pauses to think before answering. In most people this would be the sign of a lie: figuring out the story before telling it. But Jack seems to be taking her seriously, and he's got a pretty good nose for bullshit. He'd guess that she's a consultant, but she's not dressed for it: most consultants don't wear shorts and faded T-shirts on the job. She can't be more than twenty, either, yet she seems to be running the show.

"He's worried." Danny comes up behind Martin, watching too.

"'Scuse me?" That's a non-sequiteur, even for Danny. "Can you be more cryptic?"

"Cass." Danny does as he's asked.

Martin glares and Danny smiles his 'I know more than you do' smile before elaborating. "She might be psychic."

As if. Jack's not the type to fall for that, and surely he knows that the more you give a 'psychic' to work with, the more chance they have of scamming you.

"He only calls her in when he's desperate…" Danny watches the scene some more. "She's good. But it's like a 'Hail Mary'… he must think he's out of options."

"Right." Martin can't, _won't_ believe in psychics. They're a scam. Oh, Sam seems to be a convert, but Sam clings to faint hope. Martin knows enough not to trust his fate to a leaky lifeboat.

The girl looks up as though she heard him through double-paned glass, looking straight at him. She studies him for a moment, then stands up and walks out of the office, Jack a couple of steps behind.

"Martin Fitzgerald." She doesn't ask, she says, almost as a challenge. Even the way she holds out her hand for him to shake, it's like two combatants before a title fight. If this was physical, they'd be entirely different weight classes. She's tiny, almost fragile looking. Not in a delicate way, but like she doesn't always eat enough, or sleep enough. Her arms bear none of the tell-tale signs of a junkie, though that means nothing. Arms are only one place to inject. He can't see her toes, or the backs of her knees, or any of the other places where it's easy to insert a needle for a quick fix. She hasn't got the edge of a long-time drug user, though. Instead, she seems calm. Tranquil, but not tranquillised.

"Jack told you." He's not going to let her off easy.

She shakes her head, almost without breaking eye contact. They're remarkable eyes too… lots of people wish they had violet eyes, she either wears contacts or she's one of the lucky few. It's possible – eyes and hair tend to be linked recessive traits, and straw-blonde like that is definitely recessive. In fact, she almost looks like she stepped out of a Japanese comic book – wide-eyed and sharp angled – drawn instead of born.

"They're real." She answers the question he didn't ask, but that isn't hard either. Most people must ask about those eyes at one point or another.

"Good eyesight." Danny's not the only one who can be cryptic. But if Jack didn't tell her who Martin is, it wouldn't be hard for her to pull it off his I.D. badge. She's still proven nothing.

"Twenty-ten." To his surprise, she acknowledges the shot. Martin has run into 'psychics' before… most would feign ignorance of the badge and the clearly printed name on it.

The game is definitely on now; they've even drawn spectators. Besides Danny and Jack, Sam drifts over to observe the action. He thinks he sees some jealousy there and he finds it almost funny. She'll look for any excuse to pick a fight and push him farther away… it's over, yet she's still possessive.

"Can I tell you some things about yourself?" She doesn't bother waiting for his consent, but he would have given it anyway. She's pushed his buttons now, gotten him intrigued. There's nothing he likes more than busting scams and taking down predators – that's why he's an FBI agent, after all – and the way he sees it, psychics are predators. Even the ones who believe that they do have powers and that they are helping people… all they're doing is preying on the insecurity and gullibility of innocent, desperate people.

"You're intelligent, reasonably well educated… Bachelor's in either math or business…" she narrows her eyes, "… business." So far she's batting a thousand, but he's not going to say. You're involved in, or have recently been involved in, a personal relationship that isn't going well…" she cocks her head, studying him, "… and you have a difficult relationship with your father. You'd like it to be different, but you don't know how to change that."

_Good, very good._ He sees the look that passes between Danny and Jack – obviously they've seen this show before. They say nothing though, in the typical way of people who have made up their minds and are waiting for him to come to the same conclusion.

"You've run away from home more than once."

He raises one eyebrow just slightly and she smiles again. That last observation is hardly common knowledge. Jack knows, but Jack wouldn't reveal that information. So how did she figure it out?

"Anyone observant and inclined to do even basic research can find the names of the top level people." Surprisingly, she's admitting that she might have done research. The magician giving away her secrets? "That picture on your desk…" Again, not hard, all she has to do is read the nameplate, "is that of Deputy Director Victor Fitzgerald, and while the surname is common, there's enough resemblance to tell me who you are."

He nods. That gives the identification. Fair enough. The fact that he and Victor are in the same line of work _might_ indicate some familial tension…a son trying to prove himself to his father.

"But it's a publicity shot… not the kind of thing a family member usually puts on their desk. That's the kind of picture you get by writing kiss-ass letters and asking for one. I'm guessing you stole it, because if _you_ had written the letter, you might have gotten something else, and you don't strike me as the 'kiss-ass' type."

_Very, _very_ good._ Most people don't recognise that photo for what it is. Even Jack and Danny look impressed – it's something the analysis twins missed. He figures he pulled the 'personal relationship' bit off Sam… the glares she's shooting aren't subtle in the least. "What makes you say I'm a runaway?"

"You have that energy." And up until now, she's impressed him. But with four little words she's jumped from the realm of the intelligent right back into scammer central. He's surprised she doesn't say his aura is out of balance or something.

"Coiled up, tense… like fight or flight isn't a contingency; it's a way of life..."

That causes his eyes to widen. He never realised he still carried that edginess around with him. He understands what she meant by energy now… not the airy-fairy 'feelings' energy… but kinetic and potential. He realises that he _does_ telegraph it, that right now he's standing on the balls of his feet, ready to go. _Fight or flight… sometimes both_.

"…when I walked in, your first glance was towards the door. Checking the exits. You need to know there's a way to get out if things get nasty. Runaway survival rules."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam looking shocked. _All these months we were sleeping together and this stranger has figured out more about me in five minutes_. Not even five minutes, it's more like two. It's not his fault, though. He would have told her if she'd ever bothered to ask. But that's their problem: they don't communicate, mostly because Sam has never wanted to. He feels an almost perverse satisfaction. Maybe this will teach her that she doesn't know everything, least of all him. Maybe she'll realise that it's over because he finally realised that there was nothing to end.

"Anyone could do that." He shrugs, but he's telling a lie. Everyone _couldn't_ do that, because not everyone knows what it looks like. Even Jack, great profiler that he is, doesn't know everything.

"Can they?" Now it's her turn to raise an eyebrow. "Most eyewitnesses can't tell you if a guy's hair is bright red or dark black."

Danny really smiles at that one; Martin trapped himself. "It's still just observation… it doesn't mean anything."

"Was I supposed to be doing something?" She blinks twice, as though trying to figure it out. "You wanted to know what I was here for…" She raises her chin just slightly, to challenge him more. "Some people can actually admit that others are more talented."

_Ouch_. He has the grace to drop his eyes, giving her the victory. He deserves that humiliation, at the very least for not trusting Jack's judgement. Of course Jack isn't going to bring in someone who can't contribute something solid. Like Thomas, Martin's faith wavered when he saw the impossible and now he has received confirmation of his mistake. Jack is not a fool, and Martin deserves this humiliation.

Her brow furrows. "… somewhere dark… big…"

"Warehouse?" Danny suggests. Clearly he's seen this game before, knows how it works.

She shakes her head. "No… cavern." Again, she blinks twice. "Jack, give me that file again."

He does, in violation of all protocol – she's an outsider and those are confidential files, but Martin's no longer going to question, even though her vague statement could apply to anything. _Don't they always say something about water, or caverns?_ After all, those are pretty safe bets: most bodies are disposed of by dumping, and those are common dumping spots.

She pages through it and taps something, then walks over to the big city map on the wall. "You found his backpack in a trashcan _here_. On the next block…" she taps again, "is a gaming shop, _Cavern_ Games."

"Gaming, as in…" Sam seems lost, probably thinking gambling, or chess or something like that. Jack doesn't get the reference either, but Martin understands immediately. Seattle is a hot-spot for the stuff: everybody thinks of computers and coffees, but quite a few role-playing-game companies call the city home, as well.

"Well, if you're looking for a lonely kid…" Martin starts.

"Don't disparage us gamers." Cass turns around to give him a quasi-glare. "Most of us who are serious about it are highly intelligent, creative, and above average problem solvers. It's impossible to be a _complete_ loner and still be an RPGer. The entire game functions around group interaction… both in game and out. But you're right in one respect. Most people _think_ that gamers are loners and maladjusted. So, it might be a place you'd look at if you were looking for somebody to grab."

"It's still a block away." This time the voice of doubt isn't Martin's it's Danny's. Though, doubt might be the wrong word. It's more the tone he uses to think aloud, that semi-distracted voice as he drifts into another world, and you realise that behind the hyperactivity and the near brutality is a brain in constant motion. Not necessarily entertaining the same thoughts as any normal human being, but thinking nonetheless.

"I don't think that your kid was a serious gamer, either… at least not heading to or from a game shop. Jack… that inventory list doesn't contain anything like dice or character sheets or cards, does it?"

"No." Jack checks the list again, just to be sure.

"Dice?" Sam seems even more confused and Martin decides not to suppress his geeky, annoying side for her. He's done it since the day they met, showing up Danny, but always showing Sam grace. Now, though, he owes her nothing.

"Polyhedrals, usually… most gamers use multiple sets. Cards… not your standard four suit, fifty-two card deck." He's seen kids with back-packs on wheels full of those 'collector' things. The frenzy may have died, but there are still plenty of fan… well, fan_atics_ out there.

"But you think whoever grabbed him hung around the gaming shop." Martin never noticed before, but he does now. Danny doesn't ask questions nearly as much as he makes flat statements and waits for a contradiction. He _can_ ask questions, but…

Martin's eyes flick back and forth between Cass and Danny. They use the same strategy… and Jack does too. _Neat trick._ He recognises it now: they're fight and he's flight. Statements imply control, imply power. They imply _knowledge_, even when the speaker is just guessing. And suddenly he understands why he's lost so many poker games to Jack and Danny, despite having better control of his emotions than either could hope to manage.

It's a sobering recognition. He's always seen himself as the defiant one, the rogue, but this supposed psychic has revealed to him the truth. He's the scared one, the mouse staring wide-eyed and trembling at the snake, the cockroach running from the first sign of light and movement. When guys like Jack and Danny play – not just cards, but interrogation, conversation, _anything_ – they tell you what they want you to hear, and defy you to challenge them. Like… no, not like his father at all. Victor yells to cover weakness and uncertainty. He is, he realises, more like his father than he thought. They're both scared, and scared to be scared. That's Sam, too… no wonder they fight. She's probably looking for someone who will defy _her_, who will stick around no matter how much she pushes them away.

_But I don't know that I can do that_. Even before he left, he felt the urge to hide coming on. It's what ended every other relationship he's ever had – withdrawing and disappearing into his own little world until he wasn't a part of theirs anymore. Typical 'guy stuff' if you ask them: not returning calls, not picking up the phone… but it's because the phone is an intrusion, because his heart clenches tight at the thought of having to be the guy to fix one more problem, his lungs won't expand when they expect him to be their personal, emotional saviour. They don't seem to understand that sometimes he would like to be able to throw his own temper tantrums, but he can't because he doesn't really know how. His first response is almost always to run – get away from the tension, get away from the feelings, get away from the responsibility.

A familiar, yet strange emotion strikes next. _Fear._ Fear of loss, not the fear of leaving, but of being left behind. _How can you do this, God?_ How could you believe, how could you _want_ to believe in someone who would let people get away with murder, and do something like this to someone like Viv? Sam thinks he doesn't care, but the truth is that he cares so much that it's too much. Viv's been like the mother his own mother wasn't. His own mother taught him manners, how to smile and charm, how to use each piece of cutlery and never betray his feelings. It took Viv to teach him that other people _have_ feelings, and that it's not nice to step on them. Were it not for Viv letting Martin know when he was behaving badly, he and Danny would probably _still_ be at loggerheads. He'd never understood why he could never fit in, until Viv taught him the difference between showing off and showing people up.

_Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy._ It's just not fair. Martin's done his research, most people who have it aren't even inconvenienced. Viv's one of the unlucky few who could _die_. And there's not a damn thing he can do about it, just like there wasn't a damn thing he could do to help Bonnie. All his brains and he's worse than useless.

The discomfiting thoughts come and go within seconds, but he can't help feeling a small measure of hatred for this girl who made him shatter his own delusions. She sees it though, and acknowledges his feeling with a small shake of her head. It's not her fault, or so she seems to say, she just turned on the light, she didn't make him look in the mirror.

"This is getting us nowhere." He repays truth with truth; if he's worthless, then so is she.

"There's a Starbucks across the street. Good place to go if you want to sit and scout." She moves over to the conference table and perches on it, balancing herself with her hands as her feet rest on the edge. She looks coiled, ready to spring. "Get yourself a latté… watch from one of those comfy chairs, and it's a place that no one notices if the same person is there day after day."

Martin winces. He canvassed that Starbucks, but nobody there noticed anything. He should know by now, though – in a place like that, 'suspicious' is only to a given value, and regulars are shrugged off as just that. His own failure to recognise the suspicious comes back: he's trained, he should be able to _see_ when a kid's being taken, but he ran right on by until it was too late. How can he blame an amateur for not noticing what a professional can't even see?

He tries to imagine a scenario. Sitting there, sipping coffee when this kid comes along. There's something about him… not entirely identifiable, maybe, but something catches the attention. Maybe it's the downcast eyes, maybe it's the way he walks – all pulled in on himself like he's afraid of the world, not like most kids today who challenge you to take them on. Walking alone, or maybe…

His mind adds something else. More kids, laughing, teasing. Suddenly he remembers a detail he dismissed at the time, because it was too far away from their presumed scene and a stain on a New York sidewalk could be anything and sometimes not what you'd want to imagine.

In his mind, the bullies shove their victim and he falls, scraping his hand on the pavement. He plays victim now, looking up as he clutches a bleeding hand and seeing the bright green sign. Walks in, grabs a couple of napkins, unaware that he's being watched. Walks out again, doesn't see the guy get up from his table and follow. Too focussed on the pain, the humiliation and the misery to care about who's around him.

Then… "What if he threw the backpack out himself? We've been assuming that whoever took him dumped the backpack… but what if he didn't want to carry it anymore?"

To his surprise, the maybe-psychic looks impressed.

"Why would he do that?" Now Danny asks a question, but more as challenge than a request for information. But that's _Danny_. He's learned the hard way that the more aggressive you seem, the less likely people are to pick on you.

_Of course_. "It doesn't fit the image he wanted to project. Tough guys don't carry backpacks with cartoon characters on them." He studies the whiteboard with its forlorn picture and suddenly horrifying name. _William Holliday_. Sam's opposite, almost… no wonder everything they've heard about this kid says that he insists on being called 'William' with no forays into nicknames allowed. _Why not just call him Sue?_ It wouldn't help being small and smart… that's just more targets for the bullies to hit. Not to mention… now Martin turns on a friend to get the point across. "Come on, Danny… It's not like _you_ never had to deal with people making fun of you because you couldn't talk. Because you couldn't get a sentence out, you, the kid with no parents… with the junkie brother and…" Viv would kick Martin's ass for using a tactic like this, but he feels some of William's pain and it's mixing with his own. Danny's an easy target because Danny will forgive eventually. Once he understands, he'll accept the apology. Martin hopes.

"Shut… shut up." Danny does just as Martin plans, falling for the manipulation. "You… you… you… you… you're not perfect, you know." He stops, suddenly, catching on.

"Yeah." Though his attention's on Danny, where it should be when riling someone like him, Martin still sees a bit of a smile creep onto Cass' face. _So this is how it's done_. He should stop, but he's on a roll. "Tough-guy wannabe… only everybody sees through it, and you can't back it up."

"Care to discuss this on the balcony?" Like most people afflicted, Danny's stammer only hampers him when the mood is right, when he's off-balance or simply trying to think too fast for his mouth to keep up. He talks a mile-a-minute as it is, but there are some speeds the jaw was never meant to go. When he's sarcastic, it vanishes, which probably explains why he hides behind the derision so much.

Martin's brain leaps to another conclusion, one he'll have to ask Danny about some day. If Danny's been sober for as long as he says, then he started his habit younger than most. Did the angry, constantly amped up kid find a magic potion that made his speech problems go away? Martin's willing to bet it helped.

Someone should step in, but Jack's the type to let people sort things out for themselves, and Sam doesn't catch the undercurrent. Sam misses a lot of things about people. Is that a factor in her obvious growing hostility towards Cass? Jealousy that Cass can see things that Super-Sam can't?

Then it hits him, a moment's pain at what he _doesn't_ hear, but that his mind anticipates. _"Boys, boys…"_ Viv's voice echoes in his head, chiding him, chiding them both for childish behaviour. She's more than just co-worker, she's den-mother to this rabble that calls itself a team. Jack may be the leader, but Viv is the cohesive force. Martin clamps his jaw shut, not willing to let them see him cry. It isn't happening, nothing's going to happen, everything will be fine… but if it isn't, does Reggie know what a precious thing he has? How rare it is to have a mother who can give you hugs and lay down the law at the same time… yet not have it come across as an inconsistency? He has to fight not to turn his head and look for her behind him, walking in that near silent way of hers, using her motherly super-powers to detect the kids about to scrap.

"Am I late?"

Martin jerks. That one _wasn't_ in his head and he's not the only one shocked by the prospect of hearing a voice. Of course, Danny can see that it's real and his eyes fill with a relief that Martin himself can't stop feeling.

"Viv!" He and Danny say it as a chorus, and the reward for their performance is Viv's trademark half-smile, the one that says Reggie isn't the only son she'll take responsibility for and that she's proud of the mismatched older pair, even if they can be pains in the ass.

"I heard something about going to lunch." The lazy tone in her voice says that she's more than just heard about things. Viv's a master of the innocent intervention, of stepping in at just the right moment to make things go away. "Hello, Cass."

"Hey."

Martin tries to ignore his jealousy as Cass gives Vivian a hug. But how dare this perfect stranger display more familiarity than he has ever had the nerve express. He feels like he's been left out, like the elder son when his prodigal sibling returned home. He feels cheated.

He doesn't attempt to ignore the feeling of vindication when Cass makes no comment on Viv being sick. She's not very psychic if she can't figure that out. Isn't contact supposed to make things easier?

"We have got to get you fed, girl." Viv switches from peacemaker to caretaker faster than Martin can switch windows on his computer. There's something else, too. With him, Cass was challenging, spoiling for the fight. Now she seems to have done a complete turnaround, letting Viv fuss over her as though Cass were a small child.

He narrows his eyes at Cass who gives him a look that clearly says she'll explain it all later if he really wants it. The jealousy rises again as he realises that she does seem to know that Viv is sick. Again, that's just not fair. She shouldn't know: Viv wouldn't even tell the team, so why would she tell this con-artist? _When_ would she have told this brat anything? Viv is _his_ surrogate mother, not hers. He forgets that Cass has a past here – if both Jack and Danny know her, then Viv would too – and wonders how Viv could tell a stranger and not tell her own second family?

"You'll have to forgive Martin and Samantha." Viv displays near psychic powers of her own. "They tend to be a little suspicious." Then she turns to Martin. "I didn't mean to interrupt… what were you saying?"

_'Didn't mean,' my ass_. His own mother tried to instil manners of a type, but it took Viv to teach Martin grace. Grace not just in defeat, but in victory, as well. To have pride in oneself, not just one's accomplishments. Again, he demands from God an answer he knows he's not going to get. He already _knows_ the answer. Life isn't fair, and Death is just a stray bullet flying around to zap whomever they hit, regardless of whether or not the world needs her. "I just think we've been looking at this all wrong. I mean, everybody says he was the shy 'good' kid… but good kids aren't always what they seem."

"Speaking from experience?" Now it's Sam getting nasty, which is nothing new, lately.

"Absolutely." In some ways, he should count himself lucky for having the parents he did, because his image-conscious mother and career-conscious father kept him from being charged with some of the federal crimes he committed. Then again, Victor should have known better than to leave a pissed off teenage son alone in his office for more than ten minutes. Computers weren't much back then, but they _were_ easier to crash. On the other hand, prison time might have been easier time. At least in prison the guards acknowledge your existence, and you're allowed out for exercise. The ostracism was so complete that, as near as Martin can tell, it took almost two days for them to even realise he was gone. But ask his teachers and he was a little quiet, maybe angling towards thoughtful, but he got good grades and didn't cause trouble in the classroom. As for frequent, sometimes prolonged absences… well, his parents tended to travel a lot, and didn't he go stay with relatives on those occasions?

He holds Sam's gaze, she's an easy challenge, which is why he can do it. Typical Sam, she doesn't ask for details, and probably never will. He realises that he's getting _very_ tired of that. He wonders why it took him so long to notice. Probably because he thought it was a dream come true, and deliberately forgot that most of his dreams tend to morph into nightmares. _"Good luck with it."_ Jack told him not so long ago, and now Martin sees the warning in those words as though Jack knew from his own experience that it would only end in tears.

"Funny… _I_ would never have picked you for a 'good kid.'" Once again Viv steers things back into the realm of the civil and the safe.

"Right… I'm thinking, what if William was hurt and upset… and somebody comes along offering a chance to get even? Offering to help him out… or maybe just to listen."

"Profile says he's streetwise enough not to go with strangers." Sam disagrees.

_I always did_. Of course those strangers… "Streetwise _good_ kid. That depends on the stranger, now doesn't it? Someone in uniform, someone with a badge… He's been taught that they're the good people, aren't they?"

"Are you saying our snatcher's a cop?" Viv steps in closer, unable to keep away any longer. This is more than a job; this is a life. Take any of them out of it and they'll die, either literally, or by puttering away into nothingness and frustration.

"Not a cop, necessarily… someone with a badge or a uniform of some type. Maybe they're just faking it…" He can see the scene in his mind. William, banged up and crying, but trying to look tough. The stranger, official… saying something about putting things right, maybe something about dispensing justice, but he needs William's help to do it.

"No." It's not Sam playing doubter this time, it's the interloping witch with the innocent's face and – now that he listens – the gentle hint of somewhere south of Mason-Dixon in her voice. That whisper-sweet lullaby sound that lulls you into believing, even when you know you shouldn't. She walks over, lifts the photograph down from the whiteboard and stares at it. "Scared and hurt… he's not going to trust an adult. Adults always say they'll help, but they never do. Adults don't have any understanding of reality: adults seem to think that if you talk to the bully or stand up to him, it will make him go away… that if you ignore the taunts, sheer boredom will make the bully shut up. Kids know better." She turns around, those eyes trapping him, a specimen on a pin. "Did _you_ trust the strangers you went places with?"

His face says it all. Of course he didn't trust them, the bulk of them worked for Victor. You don't trust the FBI, you just do what they say. Otherwise… well, there's a lot of stairs in a Federal Building, and a lot of people who don't like busting their asses to protect someone else's career.

She starts humming something; it takes a moment for Martin to catch what it is and a little longer for him to identify it. _Why Was I Born?_ If Victor weren't a jazz fanatic, Martin wouldn't have a clue, but it's part of his subliminal conscious now: not a day went by in that house without something by Holliday, Armstrong, Ellington or Fitzgerald – Ella, not any of his tone-deaf clan – playing on some radio or record player. It's why Martin thrives on silence, why he sometimes aches for those blessed moments of no sound that he can only find alone in an interrogation room, away from the unending noise that is the City of New York. Even there isn't perfect – there's still an air-conditioner or the buzz of florescent lights.

Jack starts humming with her; Martin is a little surprised. He never pegged Jack as the musical type. But he's got good timing and pitch – at least as far as Martin can tell, which he has to admit, isn't much. "You don't think he went with anybody."

"No…" Her face darkens. "Not an adult."

"Another kid." Danny fills in the blanks. "Makes sense… he's looking for somewhere to fit in and someone offers it."

Martin has to agree. It makes a lot of sense. The question is, what's the motive? Sympathy or something sinister? Lots of room for either – age is not a factor.

Cass blinks suddenly and hands the photo back to Jack. "It's no good, Jack. I'm sorry… you're not going to find him."

Jack looks crushed. He would sell his own soul to the devil in a handshake deal if he thought it would save a kid, but he seems to accept that his 'faint hope' has faded entirely. Strangely, he doesn't ask _how_ she knows this and Martin feels frustration at the lack of disclosure. How does Jack know any of this is legit? How does he know she's not involved somehow? How does…

"I don't do miracles." The look she gives Martin answers nothing, but tells him she knows what he was thinking. It says something else, too: _You know it's true, as much as I do_.

He does. Three days with no leads doesn't offer much promise. This is New York; the city is good at swallowing people whole and not bothering to spit out a single hair or bone. That doesn't stop him from feeling cheated. Last ditch, wild shots are supposed to work, or why would anyone try them?

"That's okay. It happens." Viv puts an arm around Cass' shoulders and steers her towards the exit. "It's been a while, girl… how about we catch up over lunch."

Martin watches them leave, knowing he can't keep his feelings from his face. Jealousy, anger, disappointment.

"Martin. Come into my office." Jack doesn't wait for a response. He's not happy at all at the moment.

Martin follows and closes the door behind him, sensing he's in trouble, or at least due a lecture.

"You don't like her, do you?" No need to specify which 'her,' they both know who he's talking about.

"Jack… a psychic? I don't…"

"I don't care." Jack sits down, he looks exhausted. "I don't care if she is, if she isn't… I don't care if she's playing us for free food and the occasional pair of running shoes…"

Martin remembers, suddenly, the sneakers on the girl's feet. Old, but good quality, getting a little worn out which isn't surprising if she spends a lot of time on the run – he's not the only one with that energy.

"…because she notices things, Martin. She pays attention and sometimes…" Jack sighs. "Sometimes it works. If I thought she'd work for us, I'd hire her."

Martin nods. He has to admit, it's a creative scam. Most people wouldn't con law enforcement, at least not for things you can get for far less risk of imprisonment. "I don't like con-artists, Jack." There's no such thing as the charming rogue. Someone always gets hurt.

"Are you sure it's a con?" Jack raises his eyebrows. "As far as I know, she doesn't do her tricks for the general public. _I_ call her, she doesn't call me… and she's never promised results. I got more game-playing and heartbreak the last time I bought a car." Jack shakes his head, picks up a pen. "To put it another way, she wants to help us, and I'll take that no matter what her motivation is. But I _do_ want her to feel that we take her seriously. I can't do that when you're standing there making faces."

"I'm sorry, Jack."

Jack seems to soften. "It's a little rough the first time, isn't it? Having the tables turned on you? Having a stranger expose your little secrets?"

Martin nods. That is the main source of his anger, really. He's worked so hard at keeping his privacy, keeping 'Agent Fitzgerald' from becoming tainted by 'Martin Fitzgerald' that Cass' revelations feel like being dunked in lye until the skin comes off and all the ugly flesh is exposed. The identity he worked to build is useless now, stripped away with a few deathly accurate phrases.

_That which we hate in others is that which we hate in ourselves._ He's not sure where he first heard that, but the words come back, damning him. He hates con-artists, because most of his life has been one con or another. The good kid, the smart guy, the competent agent… they're all just frauds hiding the scared little rat who runs away the moment things get rough.

"On the other hand," Jack says, "Danny owes me twenty bucks."

Martin blinks, trying to sort out this segue.

"I bet him that you really were a human being." Jack smiles, somewhat evilly. "You kept trying to be so perfect that everyone was starting to wonder."

Martin drops his head, shaking it back and forth. "You didn't tell him you already knew…"

"Nope. If Danny wants to fall for something like that…"

"Okay." He understands now, at least he thinks he does. There's less jealousy over the silver spoon when everybody can see the tarnish. Danny even tried to tell him that, a long time ago, he was just too dense to take the hint.

"Jack…" He's scared to ask the question, but more scared not to. He has to know if he's being crazy. "Do you think Viv is going to be okay?"

It's Jack's turn to blink. "I don't know."

"Oh." Martin turns away – even someone nearer to God can't provide him with answers. He wishes now that he'd paid more attention in Sunday school, that he could remember some prayers. Prayers for healing, prayers for a miracle, prayers for the forgiveness of doubt. But he doesn't know any. He doesn't even know how to start.

He goes back to his desk and stares at his blank computer screen. He should boot it up, get some work done but he can't concentrate. Instead, he gets up and walks outside onto the balcony. Leaning on the rail, he watches the people on the street below. Who are they, where are they going, what are they thinking? What are the clues, the tells?

Then he sees her, looking up as he looks down. Then she walks forward until she disappears from view, the angle too sharp for him to keep his watch.

A few moments later, the phone on his desk rings and he hurries in to answer it. "Fitzgerald."

"Okay." Just a single word before the receiver clicks and he wonders for a moment if something happened. Then he recognises the voice and he wonders how she knows, and how she knows he needed to hear the answer.

_Okay_. It better not be a con, or Martin will find her and take her to pieces. For now though, he lets himself take comfort in the simple word. He lets himself believe.


End file.
